Winter of Discontent

Pity the crippled man-child losing it all.

He only has a wanton ant on the wall

To contemplate with on his next step.

Others have photos and paintings of saints.

Along with skyward dreams among the clouds.

While winter sends its icy message,

His chill might be interminable,

For he’s all alone,

Keeping himself hidden,

Incapable to decide his next move.

Like the ant,

He too retraces his steps

Over and over,

Finding himself

Addressing only walls,

No windows anywhere.

Surrounding trees

Cast dark silhouettes

Over his bunker-like end days,

Seeming permanent,

Day or night.

Undaunted is the ant,

But clear and present danger

Invades the man who hears

The distant roar behind the unseen shadows.

The tsunami of hurt

Is moving rapidly

As he tries to run left and right

In his never-ending maze of mistaken turns,

Unable to avoid the slow gurgling sound of drowning  

That inevitably accompanies the flood of pain.

Will there be anyone to adopt an orphan-man,

Save the minions of other ant-like followers

Wandering aimlessly

In search of purpose

Now that his days dwindle

And his making of a different “winter of our discontent” threatens.

As the ants and humans

Prepare for a contemporary version of

 “made glorious summer by this sun of York,”

The man in the big White House

Finds he too is “Deformed, unfinished,

Sent before his time into this breathing world,

Scarce half made up.”

But,,,

Unlike Richard,

This man is real

And truly corrupt,

Sadistic,

Manipulative

And determined

To become king.

God help us.